


Graffiti

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-30
Updated: 2007-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's graffiti, and then there's just playing dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graffiti

**Author's Note:**

> Just for informational purposes, Pete's writing is in Aenigma Scrawl and Patrick's is in Hanshand font.

  
"What?" Patrick says, blinking at the graffiti written on the back of the bus. "Who the fuck wrote this here? What the hell does it even say?"

"Patrick...Stump..." Joe reads, stopping to squint beside Patrick. "Dude, I don't know what the hell the rest of it might be. Ask Pete. He knows what these archaic hieroglyphics mean." He ambles off to the hotel they're staying in, running a hand through his jungle-like fro, whistling a bit. Patrick is glaring at the letters printed right underneath the large tinted window in black marker. He takes a closer look at the 't', considers the 'P' and then he knows, he _knows_ who wrote this here.

"Andy?" He asks in an admirably controlled voice as the drummer rounds the back of the bus. "Andy, where's Pete?"

"He'll be out in a minute," Andy replies in his tiny, sleepy voice and then actually does a double-take at the graffiti; his eyebrows are raised in curious amusement when he returns his gaze to Patrick. "Do you really?"

"Do I really _what_?" Patrick snaps. "What does it say?"

"Pete'll tell you." Andy wanders off but he's chuckling a bit. Patrick squeezes the bridge of his nose with his thumb and fore-finger, sighing as he closes his eyes. It's not a big deal, really, and maybe it is. He and Pete have been having _problems_ , much like a fucking married couple: squabbling over the barely nascent ideas for the new album, picking on each other's clothes, words, thoughts. They can't really hide from each other, that's the damned problem. They're....they're each too exposed to the other, radioactive leaks in each other's space. He's pretty sure that if there existed, like, a Geiger counter attuned to Pete's vibes, he'd be clicking off the scale when they pointed it in his direction.

Patrick feels something brush past him and he doesn't even think, he just reaches out, grabs and hauls back; he opens his eyes to see Pete staring at him with a cool sort of anger, the sleeve of his garish golden hoodie caught in Patrick's fist.

"What," Patrick says low, "does this say."

Pete doesn't look at the graffiti at all, he just simply stares at Patrick, almost hatefully. Patrick glares back, because nobody can do Hateful Glare like Patrick can.

"Patrick Stump takes it up the ass," he replies softly and Patrick blinks at him; releases Pete's hoodie, stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his own (because he might hit Pete or something) and blinks again.

"What the fuck," he says, so very evenly, lacing his own fingers together and holding them tight, because seriously, _what the fuck_. Pete gives him a bright grin, tinged at the edges with malice; he jerks his chin forward in quick movement that reminds Patrick of fighting roosters.

"Because I'm sure you do," Pete says to him, that same soft voice. "You've been acting like you have a fucking stick up your rectum."

"Oohh, wow, _rectum_. Congrats on learning a new word." Patrick feels snide and Pete's eyes flash at him. "And you're talking about me? You're the one who's been dragging out the poor little emo act."

"I can't do anything with you pitching a fit all over the place," Pete says, coming right up in his face and Patrick shoves him away.

"Deal with it like a fucking _adult_ , then," he spits back. Pete stumbles back, right under the offending graffiti; he gives Patrick a long scornful look out of the corner of his eye and then shakes his head, walking off. Patrick yells at his back, feeling shrew-like. "Just grow up! Oh, sure, _just_ like that," because Pete raises one middle-finger and keeps on walking.

Patrick regards the graffiti a little more and then reaches into his jeans pocket for a Sharpie, going on his tip-toes to scribble right under Pete's handwriting:  


  
Huh. Maybe Pete does have something on that immature dance, because as soon as Patrick caps the Sharpie, he feels a whole lot better. He truly can't wait to see what Pete thinks of that one.

 **:: :: :: ::**

He actually sees when Pete notices it, but all Pete does is quirk one eyebrow and saunters past him. He doesn't look particularly perturbed, but his grin is too sharp for the whole day. Patrick suddenly knows what it's like to feel like prey; Pete is giving him weighted looks, honey-coloured eyes half-lidded.

 **:: :: :: ::**

Patrick snaps awake when he feels the hand rest gently on his leg, jerking away and sitting up so quickly that his head spins; this might be a toothpaste attack. Patrick, who was quite used to sleeping easily up to when he was sixteen years old, is now a conditioned soldier, reacting quickly. The hand on his leg slips off and then returns, squeezing almost painfully.

"'Pete Wentz sucks cock,' huh? What would you know about that?" Pete's speech is a bit slurred, as if he's extra-sleepy or a little drunk. It's really just a diversionary tactic, designed to make people feel slightly surer on their feet around him; right up until he strikes. Patrick sneers in the dark.

"Your _mother_ told me," he says and takes it back in his head almost before Pete lunges at him and pins him to the bed; just because Mrs. Wentz spawned Asshole Extraordinaire here, doesn't mean she isn't good peoples. She is wonderful peoples. She fed him a lot; she doesn't need to be included in _your mother_ shots, a phrase that Patrick particularly hates and is surprised at himself for using now.

"Fuck you," Pete says darkly, pinning his wrists to the hotel bed and sitting on his stomach. "Dude. You are getting on my very last nerve, what with the bitching all the time."

"My last nerve got messed up a long time ago, with you fucking everything on two legs." Patrick is struggling and almost succeeding in throwing him off. He's sturdier than Pete and has more upper body strength; but Pete has strong legs and simply clamps onto his waist with his thighs. "Ugh. Fuck, get off me."

Pete bends down, his mouth at Patrick's ear, close as if they are on-stage. Patrick goes still, his body tense and reacting the way it always does when Pete does that.

He gets hard.

Great; and the worst thing is, Pete is draped all over him instead of leaning against his side and if he moves down, he'll feel Patrick. Knowing Pete, he'll have a field day over that.

"Jealous?" Pete whispers, and it's so low that Patrick can hardly hear the word. He only feels the brush of air and the movement of Pete's lips against the shell of his ear and he represses a shudder; his cock twitches in his boxers at this. Pete gives a throaty little laugh and slides down his body to leave; and then he freezes as well.

Patrick makes a short exasperated groan and tries to wriggle from under Pete.

"Wait, wait," Pete says, pressing one hand to his shoulder. "Wait, let me--"

"No, don't even," Patrick growls, taking him by the wrist and twisting it away. Pete winces and then presses down into him. "No," Patrick says weakly, when he realises, he feels it, _fuck_ , that Pete is hard as well, hot and heavy against his thigh.

"No, we shouldn't," Patrick tries to say, but it descends into a choking sound as Pete kind of arches into him, slowly, experimentally; this is really _really_ not funny, because he had a very distinct dream like this once and it ended out _very_ good; but that was just a _dream_.

"Why?" Pete says, a petulant thread weaving into that sultry voice he had been trying out on Patrick. "Cause...I dunno. Why not?"

"Because, Pete." Patrick shoves him off and he tumbles off the bed. Patrick looks over the edge and Pete is lying on the carpet, his outline a shadowy smudge in the dark room. "Just because." He sighs, hard. He wants this and he doesn't want it and life was a whole lot easier three albums ago, when he was looking at Pete with stars in his eyes and Pete pretended not to notice.

"Right," Pete says and Patrick narrows his eyes, watching his skinny frame as he goes over to his bed and flops into it.

 **:: :: :: ::**

  


"Wow, Patrick," Andy laughs, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. "This is maybe too much info at once, you know?"

They're staring at the back of the bus, where Pete's handwriting is looming over his own. Patrick didn't know what the sentence was until he threw an 'a' in there after the incomplete 'is' and now he's itching to choke Pete.

Because he's not a cocktease. If they had done anything that night, it would have been horrible, as in apocalyptic, and Patrick's blood-pressure couldn't stand that, really.

"Give me a marker," he demands, opening his palm in Andy's direction; Andy slaps one down like it's a scalpel and they're in the OR. "Just, fucker doesn't know _who_ he's dealing with."

"You guys are like the best sitcom ever," Andy grins as he scribbles under that; the grin turns into one of Andy's nasty little giggles and Patrick's smile feels just as terrible as he takes a look at his art:  


  
"You think he'll really get cut up over something like that?" Andy muses as he gets back his marker and they make their way to the stage for a practice run. "Because this is Pete, you know."

"Yeah." Patrick feels serene. Coming from him, that just might jab that sucker to the quick.

 **:: :: :: ::**

"Depends on your definition of _slut_ ," Pete says as if they'd been having this conversation for hours now. Patrick had come upon him in the dressing room, apparently waiting for Joe to return and finish their game. "If by _slut_ you mean someone who likes to have a good time with people he likes, then yeah."

"Um, no." Patrick strides over to the wardrobe rack and hunts for his clothes. "I'm using the commonly accepted meaning of _whore_. You, my friend, are a _marlot_. A male harlot."

"I love it when you make up words." Pete leers at him and Patrick sniffs, feeling better; whatever tension that was building up between them is dissipating, as it always does. "But you know what I love more? Your virginal blush."

Patrick smiles sweetly.

"This is how _everyone_ looks to a massive slut. And you're a huge slut for both the guys and dolls, right?"

"I'd be a huge slut for you," Pete mutters and Joe says _oooh, kinky_ , from the door. Patrick stares at Pete as they go back to digital battle, feeling a different sort of pressure; Pete's eyes are fixed on the screen, blowing up shit and screeching at Joe; but his smile is slanted in Patrick's direction, slicing him to the bone.

 **:: :: :: ::**

  


  
Fuck, _fuck_ , Pete went and changed the rules on him, as per usual. Now, Patrick is standing, his trusty black Sharpie clutched in hand as he tries to think of something to write, _anything_ ; the lamest thing comes to his mind and he simply puts it down without thinking about it.  


 **:: :: :: ::**

"This shit is getting out of hand," Joe mutters as they troop past the back of the bus; the crew has taken to adding their own scribbles, insulting each other and the entire tour, but there is a space around Pete and Patrick's graffiti, an invisible border. Patrick actually searches for Pete's response and for a minute, is actually disappointed when he doesn't see any.

Then he does; it is simply two words added to his last one:  


  
His mouth goes a little dry, because this whole thing had been like a little game, just fucking around between friends. _Pete's just joking_ , he decides firmly. Really. One fucking joke after another. He turns his head to watch Pete typing rapidly on his ubiquitous Sidekick, standing a little ways off with Dirty and Andy; Andy is standing in that weird way of his, hip cocked out, one hand perched facetiously on the hip, while Dirty is doing some outrageous movement with his whole body. Pete is smiling slightly, maybe at what Andy is saying, maybe at what Dirty is doing, maybe at something on his little machine there; one can never tell with a smile like that.

Pete says something to them, offhandedly, and then walks slowly towards Patrick, eyes still intent on the Sidekick. He leans against the back of the bus and gives a quick smile to the fans that are behind a chain-link fence; even at that distance, the shrieks reach ear-drum shattering capacity.

"You don't," Patrick says and stops, because Pete's gaze is now fixed on him, that small smile still on his lips; it's only on his mouth, though, because his eyes are dark and searching.

"Oh, yeah, I do." Pete's tone is casual. "I do and you do too."

"I'm a guy," Patrick says, lamely.

"Oh, for serious? Like me?" Pete says with pointed interest. "I couldn't tell, what with the sideburns and the dick. The dick that kinda felt nice. The dick I'd like to see, maybe sometime this millennia--"

"Stop." Patrick feels the heat suffuse his face and he can't look Pete in the eye, it's too much. "I get it. But we can't."

Pete says, after a long moment, "It's not a matter of can or can't, sweetheart," and he articulates _sweetheart_ like one would say _dumbass_. "It's actually _will you_ or _won't you_."

Patrick bites his bottom lip and has the briefest internal struggle _ever_ in his whole life, because here is a silver platter and Pete is all stretched out on it. Patrick really thought he had built up a resistance to Pete; truth is, he can only dig his heels in so many times.

"When and where?" he asks in a low voice and he doesn't have to look to know that Pete is lit up like a city at night; he can feel it.

"Later," Pete says, snapping the Sidekick shut and striding off with a purpose towards the fence, shadowed by the secure form of Charlie. The girls are going buck-wild now as Pete approaches. Patrick wonders what they'd think if they knew that their bass-player was currently planning some sort of homoerotic experience with his lead singer.

 _They might actually like it_ , he thinks idly and makes his way over there as well, Sharpie in hand.

 **:: :: :: ::**

"I'm watching gay porn," Pete announces to him as he opens his room-door to Patrick's nervous taps. "And taking notes."

"Jesus," Patrick mutters. "I thought you were the expert at this."

Pete is indeed taking notes, a sheaf of paper slightly crumpled and weighed down on the lush sofa by a fat pink pen. Patrick sits on the couch and Pete immediately makes an attempt to crawl into his lap; there is an extended session of flailing arms and curses, until they manage to find comfy positions. Patrick ends up scrunched in the corner of the sofa, shoes and socks off as he tucks his feet under himself; Pete is all up against his side, awkwardly leaning and kneeling against him.

"Experience is not necessarily a precursor to expertise," Pete lectures as they settle. "I want it to be good for you." He has a sliver of a smile on his face when Patrick turns his head slowly to look at him; the fact that he looks nervous is freaking the fuck out of Patrick. "Hey, hey," he says soothingly, when Patrick feels his face start to go into a frown. "Trust me, okay?"

And that’s the crux of the whole thing, Patrick thinks as Pete leans his forehead against Patrick's sweaty one and then turns his face to look at the television, effectively swivelling both their faces in the same direction: Pete is trustworthy only when it really matters. That can be a surprisingly few amount of times, Patrick has found, but when it happens, it happens like a bungee-jump: you swear that you're going to bash your head on those really pointy rocks and you're falling so fast and free and then the cord snaps you back up and oh my god, you are alive, _alive_ , thank the universe for The Bungee Cord and you know what? Life is a little sweeter because of the fall.

"I trust you," Patrick replies and he can feel Pete's cheek move through a smile.

 **:: :: :: ::**

The guys on the porn video are both skinny and smooth, going though a parody of _Bewitched_ , only more with the gay sex; Patrick can see why Pete chose to watch this one, because there is a lot more kissing going on than he had assumed would happen the industry of Gay Pornography. He thinks he should be freaked out more, because he's watching gay porn with his best friend, who is apparently fixated on making it the best gay experience Patrick has ever had. He actually feels a little bit flattered under all the blushing he's doing, which goes to show how much Pete has contaminated him.

The little blond dude (not a natural blond, by the way) is, um, _taking_ the dark-haired guy's cock with a lot of eager moaning and writhing; the taller brunet is pinning the blond's wrists to the bed and licking his armpit like there's some crème fucking brûlée all swirled in it. This is actually a very private kink of Patrick's and he wonders if Pete would do that to him.

"What do you like?" Pete whispers, the fucking mind-reader. "I mean. I know you and shit, but I don't know all this stuff about you and I want to. I'm serious, I really want to."

"Okay." Patrick turns his head and Pete's mouth is right there, so he kisses it; Pete makes a sort of sharp, shocked moan and his mouth opens under Patrick and he tastes like he has been drinking something sweet, maybe some soda. They've kissed before, kind of. Once when Pete was heavily medicated and had crawled into his bunk, sounding depressed. Patrick had petted his hair and endured his sloppy kisses to the corner of Patrick's mouth. Another time was when Patrick had taken a glass of white wine and had gotten giggly; it had been Christmas and Joe's stash was used as mistletoe. So, in a way, this kiss is like their first. They're both fairly lucid, at least.

Pete is making these low little groans that are making a beeline straight for Patrick's cock; he jumps a little when Pete's hand rests on his stomach, making a tiny rubbing movement. It doesn't do anything else, but Pete's tongue is stroking against his and that alone is a sensory overload, so much so that he rests his head on the back of the couch, squeezing his eyes shut. Pete breaks the kiss, darting down to press his mouth against the frantic pulse Patrick's neck. On the screen, someone is coming loudly; Patrick gasps as Pete rests his hand on the hardening bulge of his cock, squeezing gently through the material of his jeans.

"I want to taste you," Pete tells him and isn't that nice, really, because a simple little phrase like that is enough to give Patrick the goose-bumps and make his cock take deeper interest in proceedings. "Can I?"

"The fuck kind of question is that?" Patrick asks, and then opens his eyes, taking in Pete's doubtful expression. "Yeah, yes. Dude, yes." His mind is moving hyperactive circles and he speaks again, spitting out words before he can put them through the proper processing. "If I can do the same thing. You know."

Pete turns into a veritable whirligig, going to his feet in a flash and dragging Patrick along towards the dimly-lit bedroom. _We're Go for the Gay_ , Patrick thinks and he's laughing a little against Pete's demanding mouth. Pete is laughing right back, pulling back only from Patrick's mouth only to drag off his own t-shirt, discarding it on the floor. He slams the door shut and presses Patrick against it, knocking his hat off. His chest warm and hard, Patrick can feel it through the thin layer of his shirt and why Patrick is laughing so hard, he can't figure out why. Pete backs off a little and looks at him, his swollen mouth tilted up in a smile.

"What?" He asks and Patrick knows in this exact moment that he really loves Pete, because he's laughing until tears are coming out of his eyes and Pete gets it. "Dude, my ego, seriously."

"I know," Patrick chuckles and leans forward to kiss him. "I know."

Pete's hands reach up to cradle his face, stroking along his cheekbone, running his tongue along Patrick's mouth and then pulling them back to the bed. Pete's hair has grown a little long and it is coarse under Patrick's fingers; they leave Pete's hair and trip a chord down his spine. Experimentally, Patrick reaches his other hand between them and traps one of Pete's nipples between his middle and fore-fingers, moving his hand up and down. He actually has no idea what he's doing, really.

" _Fuck_ ," Pete says, sitting down on the bed and dragging Patrick with him. They end up with Patrick on his back, breathing deeply and blushing even deeper and Pete, who is straddling him, considers him with the expression of a starving man who has been presented with a buffet. Patrick's about to say something, maybe to ask Pete if they can go under the covers or something, but Pete suddenly dips his head down and nips at Patrick's neck and whatever Patrick was planning to say has been scattered like nine-pins in his brain. Pete's teeth are now pressing around Patrick's left nipple through his shirt and his hand is busy at the button of Patrick's jeans; the moment his hand slips in and grasps onto Patrick's cock, he's back to kissing Patrick again, swallowing his moans hungrily.

Pete's hand is the Right Hand of the Devil, Patrick thinks with fervour. His hands are scrabbling at Pete's arms, feeling the lean muscle and sensing the tattoos and the Right Hand of the Devil is stroking him and twisting; it's awkward, intense and Patrick is arching up off the bed. His jeans are being peeled down, boxer-briefs going along for the ride; Pete finally flings the clothing into some obscure corner. He wonders if he should feel more self-conscious about his body, his pudgy belly; but Pete is kneeling between his legs, running light hands up over his thighs, thumbs brushing tantalisingly against the soft hair at the base of his cock; he leans forward and pushes up Patrick's shirt to blow a raspberry into his bellybutton, setting off another laughing fit.

"You're half-naked and it is so very awesome," Pete confirms and then his head is going down again. Patrick assumes it's for another raspberry and when Pete kisses the crown of his cock, he just about jumps out of his skin.

"Fuck, fuck," he whispers, clenching his eyes shut as Pete's hand curls around him.

"Look. No, I mean it. Look."

Patrick goes up to his elbows and Pete pushes his legs up and he allows them to fall apart; he'll feel the strain tomorrow in those inner thigh muscles of his legs, but that is pretty secondary to how Pete is sucking the tip of his cock into his mouth, wet heat surrounding enfolding him completely. He grabs onto Pete's hair to balance himself, because he feels his mind on the cusp of exploding and Pete doesn't seem to mind at all. His hand is moving at the base of Patrick's cock, now in tandem with the suction of his mouth and all Patrick can think is _fuck fuck Pete fuck_. He thrust his hips up helplessly and Pete pulls back, pressing down on his hip-bone with one warning hand, blowing on the slick surface of his dick before sucking it in again and Patrick decides enough is enough.

He sits up more, trembling with the effort and grabs onto Pete's bicep, effectively yanking him away. His cock is pulled out of Pete's mouth with a soft _pop_ and if that isn't the hottest thing in forever, he'll gladly eat his hat. Pete is kneeling up in confusion, the pupils of his eyes fully blown, his hair messy in a non-deliberate way; Patrick scrambles up to kneel up with him, kissing him and tasting himself in Pete's mouth as he fights with the fastening on Pete's jeans.

"Come on," he curses the offending buttons, damn them, he has a male/male experience to get on with, and Pete laughs as they both pull down his clothes. Patrick is suddenly hesitant to touch him, but he screws his courage up and runs the backs of his fingers along Pete's dick, marvelling at the soft skin; Pete is whispering nonsensical phrases, very encouraging though, and Patrick takes him firmly in one hand, feeling his cock pulse in his palm, hearing Pete whimper in rhythm.

This is _power_ and it makes Patrick feel a little reckless.

"Like that?" he asks and who the hell is that talking with that low, throaty voice? Apparently, it is Patrick Martin Stump, ladies and gents, just here torturing Pete Wentz in bed. "You want... I could take you in my mouth now. If you want."

Also, Patrick Martin Stump is a hugely awkward cocktease. A power-hungry cocktease, but an awkward one nonetheless.

"Do whatever you want with it, fuck," Pete chokes out, moving his hips in anxious circles. "Just do _something_."

 _Something_ is Patrick pushing Pete to lie back on the bed, settling himself between Pete's legs as he pulls those tight jeans off, eyeing his dick with not a little nervousness. It is one thing to watch it on the television; it is quite another thing to be here with it right up in his face, swollen and leaking just a little; he only allows himself a second of wavering and then he sticks his tongue out and gives Pete's cock a broad, brave swipe, from his lightly furred balls straight up to the crown.

Hmm. Bitter and yet not as gross as he had been expecting. He licks it again, listening to Pete's laboured panting before folding his lips over the tip of it and bobbing his head a bit.

"Goddamit, I," Pete says and groans as Patrick increases the suction. Who once said he had a mouth for these things? It must have been Pete himself and he gets into it, making sure his teeth are out of the way. "God, fuck, your _mouth_ ," Pete breathes and undulates under Patrick, who pulls back when he feels Pete's cock hitting against the back of his throat, feeling his gag-reflex trying to kick in. It would be not so cool, he decides, to puke over Pete in middle of all this.

Pete groans as Patrick holds him down by the hips and Patrick risks a glace up, realising that Pete is watching him intently, his gaze hot on Patrick's face. He does that licking thing again, root to tip, and Pete holds his breath all through it, exhaling loudly when Patrick takes him in his mouth once more. Patrick tries that thing that Pete did to him, hand at the root of his cock, moving leisurely with his mouth.

Pete says in a low tortured voice, "Patrick," pushing on Patrick's shoulder; there is a little rolling around and contorting, wherein Patrick is completely awesome and keeps his lips around Pete's cock, until they are lying on their sides, head to toe. His head is comfortably pillowed on Pete's thigh, the one that is resting on the bed and it is pretty much nearly all over when Pete's mouth is back on his cock, rough hands grasping onto the backs of his thighs and diving right in.

Patrick, who considers himself a pretty fair multi-tasker, discovers that he can't give head and take it at the same time. To him, it's a little impossible, because he keeps thrusting into Pete's mouth and not paying attention to what he's supposed to be doing on this end and he's a bit of a perfectionist, okay? He's concentrating on Pete's moans, the vibrations of those humming all around his cock and he gives up when he feels his balls start to tighten up and he barely has time to warn Pete (it's hard to talk with a mouthful of dick, so he lets it go) before he is coming so hard, the muscles in his lower back hurt from the tension.

"Mmmph," is all he can manage when he is rolled onto his back, Pete crawling to hover over him. "Wait, wait," he moans, as Pete bends down to bite him on the top of his thigh; he can feel that Pete is still hard, brushing against his leg. "Hey, just."

"You should see your face," Pete observes in a gentle voice, coming forward to look down at him again. "You look amazing."

Patrick can't say anything, so he places a hand on Pete's shoulder, trailing it down slowly down his arm to the elbow, moving it from there to his hip and touching the bartskull reverently. He is looking at Pete's mouth when his fingers finally close around Pete's cock, watching the lower lip being caught between his teeth; Pete closes his eyes and covers Patrick's hand with his own, pumping slowly and then picking up speed.

"Yes," Pete says in a low hiss and Patrick clenches his hand a little, his wrist aching a bit. "Holy shit." He suddenly squeezes Patrick's hand painfully as he comes, his other hand resting right beside Patrick's head as he shudders, his dark hair falling into his face. Patrick wriggles his fingers and Pete lets him go, collapsing beside him face-down, smiling foolishly.

"Um," Patrick says, looking at his come-covered hand and Pete rolls over, grabbing for a box of Kleenex and passes it to him. "Thanks." He wipes his hand, blushing. Good job; he just had this guy's cock in his mouth and now he's _blushing_.

"Virginal blush," Pete says sleepily and Patrick tosses the box at his head.

 **:: :: :: ::**

  


  
"How would you know that?" Patrick demands, glaring at Pete. "We, ok, we haven't done stuff to get to the point of 'rough' yet."

"I like that you say 'yet'," Pete tells him, eyes gleaming. "And dudes like you? Total dominator in bed. I bet you like collars and whips and shit like that."

Patrick rolls his eyes and Pete laughs, making sure his hair is properly spiky before walking off to accost Dirty. Patrick narrows his eyes at his back and then uncaps his marker.  



End file.
